Haunted
by Lindsey Grissom
Summary: <html><head></head>*Spoilers for Season 5* Mrs Hughes gives Lady Edith something back that survived the fire and feels the winds of change settling around the house. Perhaps Mr Carson can lend her a steadying hand.</html>
1. a fragile line

**A/N: **Oh you people. I'm getting rather addicted to reviews and that is all your delightful faults. So, this came to me while I was working on the sequel to Beyond The Sea and has _nothing_ to do with that universe at all, but it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. Spoilers for Season 5 (all eps) and yeah, well, I hope you enjoy it?

* * *

><p><strong>_a fragile line_<strong>

She goes to Lady Edith as soon as her absence won't raise questions. The staff and family are distracted by the Russian refugees and none of them have taken particular notice that Lady Edith has not come down.

She takes the tiny photograph from the locked drawer in her dresser and makes her way back down from the servants' rooms, takes the back stairs up to Lady Edith's room.

The girl is still crying, she can hear that through the closed door. (And she is still just a girl, may be a mother now, may have a lover that is missing, have been jilted at the alter but she is still only just past being the child that fell asleep in Elsie's sitting room because it was the only place her sister would not look for her.)

She knocks softly, opens the door even though Lady Edith doesn't permit her access, likely has not even heard her.

The young Lady is laid out across the bed, head buried in her pillows, her sobs shaking the mattress beneath her.

How many times, Elsie thinks, has the girl lain just like this these last few years?

Haven't they all faced enough, surely this house and the people in it deserve some happiness now.

"M'lady." Lady Edith jerks and sits up, wipes at her red face with harsh hands.

"Oh, Mrs Hughes. I've missed Rose's tea haven't I? Can you tell the others that I'll take dinner here tonight? I have the most terrible headache."

That much is likely true enough, the way her eyes squint in the dim light.

"I will m'lady, I'll have Mrs Patmore prepare something light for you, Daisy will bring it up when they've finished the dinner."

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

Her thumb rubs over the photograph, isn't sure whether this will help or make everything worse. She looks at Lady Edith, the red eyes, tear tracks still wet and glistening, the pain there that Elsie understands but will never truly know. Whatever has happened today with Mr Drewe's visit, there is likely little Elsie could do now to make the girl feel worse.

"M'lady? I thought you might want this, it survived the fire."

Lady Edith's face crumples again when Elsie holds out the photograph, but her fingers eagerly reach for it. Fingertips running gently over the image, her focus somewhere else now.

The Lady pulls her face away from the photograph after a few minutes, eyes wide with fear as she looks up and meets Elsie's gaze.

"Do you, that is, this is a picture of Mr Drewe's charge, the girl I've taken an interest in. Thank you for finding it, I would- I would hate to have lost it."

"Of course." A moment and then; "I'll never ask questions, m'lady, I'll only say that she is a beautiful child."

Lady Edith blinks away tears and Elsie turns, heads for the door. She has disturbed the young Lady enough for today, if she wants to talk, she knows now that Elsie will listen as she always has.

She closes the door on the choked "thank you Mrs Hughes" and heads down to the kitchens to talk to Mrs Patmore.

Her footsteps seem heavier than they did coming up.

_**-c-e-**_

Mr Carson waits for her outside her parlour after dinner, hands full with a silver tray of tea and biscuits.

"I have a lot of work to do, Mr Carson." She isn't angry with him, isn't disappointed. He is entitled to his own opinion and this time, she isn't even sure which side of it she really falls on herself. Oh, she feels awful about poor Archie, for Mrs Patmore and her sister, wishes something could be done to get the lad's name put on his home town's memorial, or that he had never been killed at all. But she does understand Mr Carson's argument, even if she does not agree with it herself. Knows that it would be hard to convince the members of the committee of the boy's worthiness to be on there.

Only she can't help but imagine if it were William's name they were arguing about, how she and his family would feel to not have him remembered that way. He did not run, their brave boy, but had they not all at one time wished he hadn't wanted to go at all? The war took both boys in the end and she wishes it didn't matter if it was a German bullet or an English one. But it does.

"-s Hughes." A hand at her elbow brings her back to Mr Carson's face, the familiar lines of it wrinkled in concern. "Are you quite alright?"

"I'm sorry Mr Carson, I was away with the fairies for a moment there."

She opens her door and waves for him to enter, drops herself into her chair while he settles the tea tray on the table beside her.

"Not pleasant fairies, I fear."

She looks to him, confused, not really following him at all tonight. She has been distracted all day. All week if she can bring herself to be honest.

He hands her a cup of tea, stirs sugar into his own and settles himself in the other chair. "You still have a frown on your face, Mrs Hughes."

Yes, she supposes she does.

"You said some time ago that you could feel a shifting in the ground beneath you, Mr Carson. I believe that I can too."

"And that concerns you?" His voice, his gentle grumbling voice begins to loosen knots in her she thought might only ever get tighter.

"It does, Mr Carson. I am afraid of what might not survive the shake-up."

She turns away as his face saddens, remembers when things were easier.

They sip at their tea in silence, the first true moment of peace she has had all day.

Draining the last dregs from her cup, she can feel his eyes on her. A comforting weight, after feeling as though she has been under too many watchful eyes today.

Eventually she hears his intake of breath, the straightening of his jacket as he prepares himself to speak.

"Something is bothering you, Mrs Hughes. Perhaps a great many things." She looks at him, takes in the sincere concern that furrows his brow. "You can tell me, you know." He reaches out, places his hand over hers on the table. "I'd like to help."

"I know, Mr Carson and I do thank you for that." Could it be that easy, she thinks, to just tell him everything and let him steady her? Would she feel more of the stillness he has brought to her this evening if she finally spoke out all of her fears and worries while he listens? But of course; "Some secrets are not mine to tell."

He nods, dips his head just a little, but if he is disappointed he at least seems unsurprised by her answer. "And the others?"

"Those are mine to keep or tell." She says, turns her hand over and lets his fingers fall into the spaces between her own.

"And will you tell me them, Mrs Hughes?"

She smiles, squeezes his fingers tightly and meets his eyes.

"I will Mr Carson." His thumb rubs circles on the back of her hand and his eyes are so soft. "Soon, I think. Very soon."

**End.**


	2. everything's on fire

**A/N: **Okay, so, this was absolutely _definitely_ totally going to be a oneshot. And then VoyICJ got a thought niggling in my head and I had one incredibly long and rather boring meeting this afternoon, and afterwards this came about. So really, you should blame VoyICJ (and the joy that is internet marketing and search engine optimisation). I have a horrible feeling a third part might be on its way, but as I don't have that even thought through yet, I'm keeping this marked as complete because it does still stand on its own as a two-shot. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the original part, you guys really are the reason I'm still writing.

* * *

><p><strong>_everything's on fire_<strong>

"Was this one of your secrets, Mrs Hughes?"

He is angry, so very angry and though she would like nothing better than to look away from him, from the disappointment and hurt that sits just beneath his surface, she can't.

She deserves this. She deserves to feel the pain that comes from seeing that she has hurt him again. That she can still, _all the time_, disappoint him like this.

His body vibrates with the tension inside him, she can see it in the trembling of his waistcoat buttons.

She had meant to fix that last one, holding on now by a thin thread. But she has been so tired lately, has hardly had time to sip sherry and wine at the end of the day and only then because _he_ had brought it to her, waited outside her parlour for her to be finished with her day. he has said not one word on the subject of secrets since their talk a week ago, but has let the silence rest between them, providing more comfort than he will ever know.

She had hoped that she would have told him one of those secrets before he found out about any of the others. The one, at least, that she has thought to be her greatest for more years than she cares to number. But perhaps it is better that she hasn't shared that with him yet. That anything she might have said, _he_ might have said, has not been cheapened by the other secrets, the lies he now knows she has told.

She hasn't answered him and his face reddens at her continued silence.

But what is she to tell him? To say yes, to agree that she had known about a disagreement between Mr Bates and Mr Greene, to speak further and tell him that she had words with the valet too? That she wakes up at night with the feel of his jacket on her fingers, that she dreams she pushed him beneath that car herself. That sometimes, between the quick breaths and tears she wishes she had.

Should she tell him that on a spare moment during her time in London, she went to the street, stood near the spot where she supposes he died and was _glad_?

She does not think she needs to tell him what the man did to Anna. His pantry door was closed for two hours after he called Mr Bates there and both men had left shaken and angry. But would he want her to tell him of the state Anna was in, the torn dress, cut lip. The way her body had looked to be shaking itself apart?

"Mrs Hughes, I have asked a question and I expect an answer from you."

It has been years since he has treated her as anything but an equal and that he does so now tells her more than she can perhaps bear.

"Yes, Mr Carson," Her voice is small, tight to hide a tremor. "I knew of Mr Bates' disagreement with Mr Greene."

His eyes darken, as though he had held out some final hope that she has now destroyed, that she is not the liar she knows herself to be.

"You _lied_ to me. I asked you, not one week ago if you knew what the sergeant had spoken about and you told me you didn't."

"I did." She says, there is no excuse and she does not think she would give him one now if there were.

"You lied to me."

She says nothing, finally allows herself to look away from him, looks to his bookshelf for somewhere to rest her eyes.

"What else have you lied to me about, Mrs Hughes? Do I need to reconsider everything you've said to me with new eyes."

Oh yes, she was right to have not told him _that_ secret. If it hurts this much for every other truth to be called into question, how much worse would it be to have him doubt _that_?

She wonders what has happened to her, where the fire and passion have gone. Would she not, only a year or two ago, have reminded him that he himself has kept things from her, perhaps not about the staff, but still not always told her the truth? And a year, six months ago, would she not have left him here, allowed him to blow through his anger without giving herself up as a captive audience?

The world has changed and she finds herself changed with it, only not in the ways she expected, not in the ways that would help her. But in other ways, ways that keep her standing here unable to leave, but not knowing what of her will remain if she stays.

And she is so very tired.

"Mrs Hughes?"

Has she missed another question? She isn't sure she has any more answers to give him tonight.

His fingers touch her elbow, curl around her arm and she cannot seem to focus on his face, close as it is.

"Mrs Hughes, perhaps you should sit down."

"Why?" Is this where he lets her go? Tells her that he and the Family are thankful for her service but she is no longer required. Does it matter so much if it is, if that means she is no longer obligated to hold their secrets? But will she lose him too? It seems likely. He is, after all, so disappointed in her, surely he won't want to spend time with her away from the house, when it would be a choice and not necessity.

"You're crying, Mrs Hughes."

"Am I?" She reaches up, feels wetness on her cheek. "Oh." Her fingers are shaking and she looks at them as she lowers her hand.

"Mrs Hughes-"

"Elsie."

"-What?"

"Will you, could you-" It seems important, _is_ important, that he call her that one more time before she goes, that he say it now when it means more than it did while she was just head housemaid. "If you're to give me my papers, I'd like if you could call me Elsie, just this once, Mr Carson."

"Give you your-? Mrs Hughes, whatever is the matter with you?"

She laughs. Quiet and low. Wet. Of course he couldn't do it, the dear man would never feel it proper to.

Her tears fall quickly now, the laughs turning to sobs. She feels his fingers tighten their hold on her, expects to be guided to a chair, offered tea and a chance to calm.

He pulls her close instead, her head against his chest and wraps his free arm around her shoulders. Keeps her tucked up against him.

She isn't sure if he really whispers "oh my dear" into her hair, but she hopes he does. Her hands grasp at the back of his jacket, twist the fabric between her fingers. She holds onto the only thing that feels steady.

"I think, for your own sake, you need to tell me everything now, Mrs- Elsie." He says when her cries have stopped, her tears drying on his shirt.

She tries to pull away, to look at him but he holds her tight. She nods, knows that he will feel it where her head rests against him.

"And perhaps, when we're alone, you might call me Charles."

She smiles, feels something long cast adrift settle within her.

He lets her go this time when she pulls back and she reaches for his hand, leads him to the chairs.

He pulls his around to face her as she sits, folds her hand in both of his.

"And you're not so angry with me, Charles?" She has to know, although she isn't sure if she has any right to.

He smiles, perhaps because this is the first time she has called him Charles without following with his surname. Perhaps because he knows how it calms her.

He shakes his head, squeezes her hand between his own. "Only that these secrets are causing you harm."

His cheek is soft against her fingers, smooth with just the edge of scruff where he hasn't had a chance yet to shave again today.

"I do love you, Charles Carson." She says, because it seems only right that the first secret she held should be the first secret she willingly tells him.

He turns into her caress, presses his lips against her fingertips, says "Well, that's certainly a good start."

And it is, she thinks and so she continues to tell him more.

**End.**


	3. balance on a tightrope

**A/N: Thank you, everyone for all your comments and reviews, I'm amazed at how much you guys like this. I'm definitely calling this the final part now. It's not my favourite chapter, but I think it does tie it all up quite neatly.**

* * *

><p><strong>_balance on a tightrope_<strong>

He stands by the bookcase when she finishes. His hands clasped behind his back. He seems to be making a good study of the various journals and ledgers he has shelved there, but she knows he is not really seeing them.

He stood and moved away sometime while she related her own and Lady Mary's actions with the train ticket.

He returned when she spoke of visiting the street, and stepped away again when she began to tell him of poor Lady Edith.

For all that she feels guilty to have broken the promises she has made to others, spoken or otherwise, she is lighter.

Her body does not seem weighed down so much now, she thinks she could rise from the chair and not worry that her head will spin and her knees will ache.

She feels hungry for the first time in weeks.

She cannot tell much from his back, but what she can does not seem to be anger. His own shoulders have fallen as she passed her weight to him with each word, but he is not bowed by it. His shoulders strong enough to take it.

She casts a glance to his clock and rises in surprise. "Charles, the dinner gong, you'll be late."

Her voice is rough from overuse, she isn't sure the last time she spoke for so long uninterrupted, may never have at all.

He turns his head, waves one hand in dismissal. "Barrow can do it. This is more important."

Her heart jumps a little at that, although; "surely this is resolved now, I've told you everything."

Perhaps he doesn't believe her, his doubt in her honesty still holding.

She wrings her hands together in her lap, worries at her bottom lip.

He turns from the bookcase to face her fully.

"Resolved? Mrs Hu- **_blast it_** -_Elsie,_" Despite the seriousness of the moment, she can't help but smile at his frustration with her name, "you thought I was sending you away. You believed that I might sack you. Nothing has been _resolved_."

He kneels before her, pulls her hands apart and holds them in his own. They have gone years without much touch at all between them and she wonders that now he can take her hands with such ease, such familiarity to the gesture.

"Do you think me such an unreasonable man that I would turn you out because you felt you had to keep some things from me? That I would not listen to your side?"

He looks so hurt again, and she brings their hands up to her lips, kisses his knuckles. "Not unreasonable, Charles. But how could I expect you to work with me if I had lost your trust?"

He shuffles closer to her so that her knees press against his chest. "I would be more likely to leave myself, if I thought you didn't respect me or believe that I am _always_ on your side."

It seems they both think of their most recent disagreements and he adds with a half grin; "eventually."

She smiles at him, squeezes his hands.

"Thank you, Charles. You were right, I think I was making myself ill keeping so much a secret, from you." She adds with a nod.

His eyes drop to her chest then, one secret she hasn't told him because he already knows it. She gives it only a moment of thought before taking his hand, still wrapped around hers, and pressing it to her breast, over the small scar hidden beneath her dress, corset and shift. His hand flexes over hers and she drops her hold on him, breathes deep when it is just his fingers against her. Grips tightly at his arms.

"I was so worried." He says, still staring where his hand lays.

"I know." She admits, and then. "I never wanted you to be."

His eyes darken, a sad smile settling on his lips. "Yes, I did suppose that was why you tried to hide it from me."

She hums, knows he must feel the vibrations of it.

"You will tell me, if-"

"Yes." She cuts him off before he can tempt fate. And she means it. These last weeks have shown her that she cannot face things alone now, not the big things. Oh, she could struggle through alone but she doesn't _have_ to, this afternoon has proven that much at least.

"I confess that I have a secret myself that I would like you to keep." His hand moves, slides over her dress to rest against her neck. "You are Downton's secret keeper after all."

"I think I can handle one more secret." She breathes, pulse jumping as his fingers trace her jaw.

"I love you." She closes her eyes for a moment, lets the words settle into her heart.

"Is that the secret, Mr Carson?"

He smiles, thumb sweeping across her cheekbone. "No,_Mrs Hughes_" he says pointedly, and she smiles back shyly. "The secret is this: Elizabeth May Hughes, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? Not today," he adds before she can answer, "but when we are both ready for a life away from the House. A life together."

He looks unsure, as though he still does not know what her answer will be. She is going to spend the rest of their lives making certain that he is always sure of her, of _them_.

"Of course." She says, leaning forward, pulling on his elbows, drawing him closer. "Of course."

"Oh, Elsie."

"You're thinking of retiring." She realises, says in the moment before their lips meet.

"With you." His breath rushes against her cheek. "Just with you."

And he closes the gap between them, his lips a gentle pressure against her own. His fingers sliding around her neck, into her hair. Her arms wrap themselves around his shoulders, bringing them even closer together.

He licks across her lips and they fall open on a gasp, the first touch of his tongue against her own has her heart racing, blood rushing hot and heavy in her veins.

She has never felt quite like this before.

When he pulls away, their breaths sound loud in the room and she clings to him, rests her head against his chest and tries to calm her breathing. Matches it to the slowing of his.

"Yes," he says eventually, his voice a deep rumble she can feel. "Not today, but soon, I think." His hands slip from her hair, slide down her back and hold her tight. "Very soon."

She smiles into his jacket. This is one secret she doesn't think it will harm her to keep between them for a little while.

_Just_ a little while, mind. She is ready enough for that life of theirs and doesn't think she will be waiting too long for him to get there.

He squeezes her and presses a kiss into her hair.

They always reach an agreement eventually.

**_End (really, this time)._**


End file.
